Read Online Buckingham Palace Blues by James Craig - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Craig
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Crime, Police Procedural, cookie429, Extratorrents, Kat
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Simpson said flatly, ‘don’t drag it out.’
SIX
Carlyle walked out of the train station, heading in the direction of Windsor Castle. According to a tourist brochure he had read on the train, Windsor Castle was the Official Residence of Her Majesty the Queen and the oldest and largest still-occupied castle in the world. At the moment, however, the old girl wasn’t at home. Rather, she was on a state visit to Costa Rica, doing whatever it was that you did on state visits. During his time in Royal Protection, Carlyle had never travelled anywhere more exotic than Cardiff. That was more than far enough away from home, where he was concerned. Anyway, wasn’t Wales considered a kind of foreign country these days?
It had turned cold. When the wind blew, Carlyle realised it was time to be breaking out his winter wardrobe. Walking through the town centre, he buttoned up his raincoat and lengthened his stride. After five minutes, he turned down Peascod Street and headed for the Royal Joker public house.
The Royal Joker occupied the ground and lower-ground floors of a nondescript 1970s office block. Given that it was barely eleven o’clock in the morning, Carlyle was not surprised to find the place completely empty when he stepped inside the pub. On the wall at the back was a sign pointing to a games room and the beer garden. Nodding at the girl cleaning the tables, Carlyle went through the main bar and down some stairs into a large room that, if anything, seemed even colder than the street outside. At the far end, a pair of French windows led out on to a patio on which stood a few forlorn plastic tables. Inside, a couple of tatty leather sofas sat next to a wall. Above one was a large poster of Mount Iron in Wanaka, advertising holidays in New Zealand. In the middle of the room was a coin-operated, red-topped pool table. A handwritten sign on the side said £2 a game . Two half-empty pints of lager stood on the rim of the table, next to a small cube of blue chalk.
Ignoring his arrival, two women were engrossed in a game that had clearly just started. The one leaning over the table was bulky, with a low centre of gravity. Her short dark curly hair and pained expression gave her more than a passing resemblance to Diego Maradona in his post-playing days. One foot off the ground, she bent forward, searching for the right angle for her next shot. Watching her intently was her companion, a tall, thin woman in black jeans and a black T-shirt. With too much make-up and violently black hair, she looked to Carlyle like a Goth pensioner. He was pretty sure she was the girlfriend. He remembered meeting her once or twice during his time in Royal Protection but couldn’t remember her name. Studiously ignoring him, she picked up her pint and took a dainty sip.
With a grunt, the woman at the table over-hit her shot and watched the cue ball slam into the middle pocket and disappear. ‘Shit!’
‘Unlucky,’ Carlyle said, stepping towards the table.
Alexa Matthews slid away from the table and turned to face him. ‘Fuck off.’
Making an effort to almost smile, he looked her up and down. They were about the same height, but she was twice his width. Wearing a pair of biker boots, torn jeans and an Iron Maiden T-shirt, she looked every inch the off-duty copper that she was. Matthews had been dressing the same way for at least twenty years. In his opinion, the nose ring and the three piercings in each eyebrow didn’t really suit a woman in her late forties. Presumably she took them out when she went on duty.
‘What are you doing here?’ she scowled, grasping her pool cue tightly.
‘I wanted a word,’ Carlyle said evenly, glancing cautiously at the cue. ‘I left you a message.’
‘And I didn’t reply,’ Matthews said. ‘Didn’t that tell you something?’
The other woman had retrieved the cue ball and proceeded to pot a couple of colours in quick succession.
Matthews glanced at the table and grimaced. Turning back to
SIX
Carlyle walked out of the train station, heading in the direction of Windsor Castle. According to a tourist brochure he had read on the train, Windsor Castle was the Official Residence of Her Majesty the Queen and the oldest and largest still-occupied castle in the world. At the moment, however, the old girl wasn’t at home. Rather, she was on a state visit to Costa Rica, doing whatever it was that you did on state visits. During his time in Royal Protection, Carlyle had never travelled anywhere more exotic than Cardiff. That was more than far enough away from home, where he was concerned. Anyway, wasn’t Wales considered a kind of foreign country these days?
It had turned cold. When the wind blew, Carlyle realised it was time to be breaking out his winter wardrobe. Walking through the town centre, he buttoned up his raincoat and lengthened his stride. After five minutes, he turned down Peascod Street and headed for the Royal Joker public house.
The Royal Joker occupied the ground and lower-ground floors of a nondescript 1970s office block. Given that it was barely eleven o’clock in the morning, Carlyle was not surprised to find the place completely empty when he stepped inside the pub. On the wall at the back was a sign pointing to a games room and the beer garden. Nodding at the girl cleaning the tables, Carlyle went through the main bar and down some stairs into a large room that, if anything, seemed even colder than the street outside. At the far end, a pair of French windows led out on to a patio on which stood a few forlorn plastic tables. Inside, a couple of tatty leather sofas sat next to a wall. Above one was a large poster of Mount Iron in Wanaka, advertising holidays in New Zealand. In the middle of the room was a coin-operated, red-topped pool table. A handwritten sign on the side said £2 a game . Two half-empty pints of lager stood on the rim of the table, next to a small cube of blue chalk.
Ignoring his arrival, two women were engrossed in a game that had clearly just started. The one leaning over the table was bulky, with a low centre of gravity. Her short dark curly hair and pained expression gave her more than a passing resemblance to Diego Maradona in his post-playing days. One foot off the ground, she bent forward, searching for the right angle for her next shot. Watching her intently was her companion, a tall, thin woman in black jeans and a black T-shirt. With too much make-up and violently black hair, she looked to Carlyle like a Goth pensioner. He was pretty sure she was the girlfriend. He remembered meeting her once or twice during his time in Royal Protection but couldn’t remember her name. Studiously ignoring him, she picked up her pint and took a dainty sip.
With a grunt, the woman at the table over-hit her shot and watched the cue ball slam into the middle pocket and disappear. ‘Shit!’
‘Unlucky,’ Carlyle said, stepping towards the table.
Alexa Matthews slid away from the table and turned to face him. ‘Fuck off.’
Making an effort to almost smile, he looked her up and down. They were about the same height, but she was twice his width. Wearing a pair of biker boots, torn jeans and an Iron Maiden T-shirt, she looked every inch the off-duty copper that she was. Matthews had been dressing the same way for at least twenty years. In his opinion, the nose ring and the three piercings in each eyebrow didn’t really suit a woman in her late forties. Presumably she took them out when she went on duty.
‘What are you doing here?’ she scowled, grasping her pool cue tightly.
‘I wanted a word,’ Carlyle said evenly, glancing cautiously at the cue. ‘I left you a message.’
‘And I didn’t reply,’ Matthews said. ‘Didn’t that tell you something?’
The other woman had retrieved the cue ball and proceeded to pot a couple of colours in quick succession.
Matthews glanced at the table and grimaced. Turning back to
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